The Shadow of His Wings
by Marguerite1
Summary: Souls touch, even when one is in hiding.


**The Shadow of His Wings**

Classification: Vignette   
Summary: Father McCue watches over Mulder as Mulder watches over Scully 

For jordan. All the rest is commentary. 

*** 

In a gust of summer wind he enters. 

This is my pulpit, my church, my place of love and light, and I watch him as his shadow falls over a reflected pool of stained glass. His stealthy comings and goings are almost ritualistic; week after week I look beyond the faces of my flock and find him there, those fathomless eyes in constant motion until they light upon the back of one particular head. 

He is searching for his own order of salvation in the bright hair of Dana Scully. 

Of course I know who he is, for "Mulder" was the name on Dana's lips as she recited her deathbed rosary. He left as I entered the hospital room, offering her a kiss and a whispered joke that I did not hear, reluctantly letting her fingers slip from his hand as he took his leave. I will never forget his face. Or hers, as she let bitter tears speak her farewell. 

Then she recovered, and so did he. 

He haunted the corridors that night, a haggard guardian angel. When I tried to speak to him, he pulled away. I did not hear his voice, but his eyes said "I don't deserve your kindness." Even Margaret could not persuade him to enter the sanctuary where his miracle waited for him. He guarded his treasure but would not look upon her face. 

Much as he has done nearly every Sunday since that night. 

They work side by side five days a week and part on the sixth, but on the Sabbath they are together in a sense I have never witnessed. He takes his place behind her, hidden in the shadows, sending invisible messages of love and peace to her. Her faith grows under his silent ministrations, and their bond strengthens tenfold, but she does not truly understand why. 

Dana is unaware of his presence, standing at her mother's side and singing the responses in a dark, off-key voice made beautiful by its yearning. Once in a while I look at the back of the church and find the man listening, trying to pick Dana's voice out of the hundred. I believe he does; I believe that he can hear her on some level unknown to the rest of us in the corporeal world. 

His face is curious as he watches Dana approach for the Blessed Sacrament. When she opens her mouth to accept the Body and Blood of Christ, the man in the shadows draws himself back so that he will not be seen when she returns to her pew. Poor soul, he does not know that Dana is transported to a place where her mind is as serene as the hands she folds in prayer, her fingers interlaced like the feathers of a nesting dove. 

There is no tranquility in his restless mind, no comfort for a man who prefers guilt to helplessness. Every time the Sign of Peace is exchanged he starts to reach out for her, but his flesh fails the desire of his heart and his hands drop to his sides. 

He does not know the number of candles that have burned brightly in front of Saint Joseph, all dedicated to his continued safety and health. I told Dana what an apt choice she had made for her friend and partner when she dedicated her prayers to the patron of those who might die suddenly. Her correction stunned me: "I chose Saint Joseph because he believed an impossible story." 

A man who believes impossible stories waits for my final words: "Mass is ended, go in peace." He is usually gone by now, but a mother and her crying baby have blocked his exit. There is a flicker of panic as he slips into the familiar shadows, letting his sober gray suit camouflage him against the stone wall. 

Our eyes meet as I draw near and I pause to touch his arm. He is determined not to let Dana know that he has followed her here, but I direct his gaze to the front of the church. 

Margaret and Dana are among those who have remained to light candles for their loved ones, the living as well as those who have gone before. Dana crosses herself and kneels in front of Saint Joseph, moving her lips in prayer as she lights a candle. 

"That one is for you," I tell him. 

He is astonished. 

"I'm Jewish," he says after a long search for words. 

"So was Saint Joseph." 

He smiles in appreciation. I don't ask if he prays for her; his every gesture is dedicated to her in a way I've never seen, deeper than the commitment of a parent or even a lover. Universal and boundless, as God loves His children. Even this child, the dark, fallen one who haunts my church by day and Dana's dreams by night, the one who hungers for love but thinks he is unworthy of it. 

He is thinking it now. 

Oh, my son, if only I could tell you how wrong you are. 

He looks longingly at Dana for a moment, a silent benediction pouring from his aching heart, and departs the house of God. 

Just as he leaves, Dana rises and turns. She wears an expression of wonder, as if mindful of an angel's touch, but it is only the shadow of his wings. 

***   
END   
*** 

Feedback is lovingly answered at marguerite@swbell.net.   
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